


Aquiescence

by Laika



Series: Vocation [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:06:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laika/pseuds/Laika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Acceptance or tacit assent by silence or without objection. In short, John's life with (or without) Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aquiescence

**Author's Note:**

> Second instalment of what is/will be a series of related but separate instances, because chapters and I are not friends. In all likelihood there will be another part to this one, at least.  
> All my love for the-willow, who puts up with me most admirably. Any remaining errors are entirely mine.

"Come now, John, I could hardly let myself die without telling you the truth." He smiles but his eyes betray the loneliness, the incomparable frustration of living the most singular of lies (that is, pretending to be dead when you're alive) even if it's for a very, very good reason.

He's talking about the truth about being a fraud, but John never believed that anyway - not even when he stepped off the edge, expecting gravity to buoy him up, to refuse to cooperate with the audacity of his untruth.

The look hurts, but more than anything John aches to hear those words.

_But I did._

He shouldn't feel guilty now. Months of therapy, trails of wreckage from numerous doomed-to-failure relationships. He should forward his bills to Sherlock, not to mention the fact that John can't even go to the chemist anymore without that one with the ridiculous nails glaring daggers at him. He has to go to the one that’s blocks away. Somehow that's also Sherlock's fault.

Pain isn't tangible or quantitative. Not even qualitative, really, if you consider that it only exists at the exact moment that it actually hurts. It's impossible to recall the exact amount of pain one experiences, say, when getting shot and all that blood and thinking, believing that you're going to die. No matter how vivid or acute, you can't summon that pain from memory. But this -

_I could have said it._

\- is completely different, even though he’s back. And he's perfectly intact and exactly the same as the image of him he's resurrected in his head over and over so that John can tell him. Endless situations, myriad parallel universes unfolding laterally forever, each more ridiculous than the last; things that he never would have imagined before that exact moment - even though he knew, has known for so long -

\- whispering it into the hollow of his throat, pink crescents rising over twilit white skin.

\- and he's so ridiculous, contrived almost in his sheer ridiculous beauty. A study in contrasts, the light catching the implacable colours of his eyes and the contour of his jaw; the fluidity of limbs and the exquisite texture of his skin –  details like relics that John hoarded away long ago before he realized their value.  And now they’re so painfully obvious that it hurts to look.

After he was gone it didn't matter anymore. That’s when he was no longer afraid of the absolute worst things he could imagine. Shame is nothing compared to guilt.

_To save you-_

And now that he’s back like magic, after the initial strong words, he just acts so maddeningly normal - as much as Sherlock Holmes is capable of the word. And John can’t help but play normal, too. The guilt remains but the urge to tell him subsides, ebbing away without the impetus of impossibility.

He knows it’s wrong but it’s Sherlock. Even if he had said it at that moment, staring up, his lone familiar figure eclipsing the sky, swallowing the sun and John’s whole world, would it have changed anything? Knowing what he knows now – that it was all planned, that Sherlock stayed with Molly just long enough to stomach the idea of crawling to his brother for help, that Sherlock could never have stayed dead without Mycroft’s assistance and the fact that nobody, _nobody_ ever saw fit to tell him – if anything, it would have just inconvenienced Sherlock’s plan, thrown off the beautifully tragic slant of it all.  Or improved it. Who knows.

Unimaginable that he would reciprocate. There is a limit.

_Maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything, but there’s always a chance, and I didn’t take it._

\---

“John!”

He doesn’t have to look up from the paper to know what this is about. He can tell from the way that his voice precedes him, reverberating off the walls. He sinks lower into his chair, battening the hatches. _Be strong, John._

“John-“ Sherlock rounds the corner, fully exasperated. “Your things. They’re in my room.”

“That’s not surprising, considering it’s my room now.”

His lips compress into a line and he straightens his back, chin raised slightly. His voice is surprisingly even. “I don’t understand why you should have felt the need to switch rooms. I don’t think I need to tell you how highly inconvenient it is for both of us.”

He lowers the paper slightly.

“You know, you’re right. I should have continued to climb the stairs to the second floor bedroom every day so that my dead flatmate wouldn’t be inconvenienced. Terribly sorry.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows twitch together in a way that says he knows that he’s misstepped. He changes tactics. “Then I would like to persuade you to change back, if possible.”

“No.”

“John – “

“It’s not happening, Sherlock, so leave it.”

His fists ball and release again, and his eyes dart around the ceiling, his shoulders and spine held taut.

“Pick up your dry-cleaning.”

John snorts derisively.

“Fix you coffee.”

“Lived that adventure once already, thanks.”

Sherlock sighs.

“I was very attached to that room.”

“You could have stayed there.”

John glances up. Sherlock is staring at him, eyes reduced to two points of burning bright-blue-green discomfort. Tiny twinge of guilt for not humouring him, but the feeling is quickly undermined by resolve descending hard like a metal shutter. He raises the paper to block out his gaze.

“I,” Sherlock starts.

“No.”

He makes a strangled noise and storms up the stairs, taking care to make as much noise as possible.

\---

It had only taken six months.

It’s an unseasonably warm day; the sun slanting columns of light into the room, catching little eddies of dust. Everything but the smell is familiar. The arabesques of gaudy wallpaper, mismatched china, furniture complete with dust covers – the details distract him from the obvious.

He can’t tell yet if this is an extraordinarily bad idea or not.

“I hate to tell you, love, but it wasn’t exactly a surprise,” Mrs. Hudson says, setting a sandwich in front of him. She sits, smoothing her skirt over her knees. “And I’ll have you know, it’s not easy to make ends meet in this day and age. It was very difficult to leave it empty,” she adds with a sniff.

John mutters an obligatory but not necessarily wholehearted offer to make up the lost rent.

“Oh, I would never, dear. Especially not after what you’ve been through.” She pats his thigh, as though his death was his burden alone. John half-smiles, half-winces, and wonders if it isn’t a little bit true. “Besides,” she leans forward conspiratorially, “with the sort that has been asking after it, I’ve half a mind to call the police rather than rent it out.”

His eyes widen. “What sort?”

“Oh you know, his old fans, but the dodgy ones.” She gives a dramatic shudder. “Not serial-killer-dodgy, mind you. Well, maybe just the one. Offered quite a bit of money, too.”

John sighs. Excellent.

“But don’t you worry, dear. Things will be all settled now that you’re moving back in, what with your pistol and everything. I’ll feel much safer.”

“Mrs. Hudson, that’s –“

“Come now, love, it’s no secret. When you learn to clean up a bit for yourself you can worry about who knows about what pistol. Anyways – “ she pushes the plate into his hands, gesturing for him to take a bite. He obeys. “I’ve even left the furniture the way you like it.”

“Very kind of you, thank you,” he mutters around a mouthful of tuna salad.

“And I’ve moved _you-know-who’s_ things upstairs. Never could figure out what to do with them.”

From anyone else it would seem callous, but hearing Mrs. Hudson say it in a cartoonlike stage whisper seems appropriate, somehow. It dulls the edges and makes it softer, more bearable. And it helps, he has to admit, to be sitting in his own chair in their familiar flat – albeit a much cleaner, uncluttered flat. John hadn’t realized until Sherlock’s things had been cleared out how little his own possessions had contributed to the atmosphere of _home_. But then, he had been everything. Was everything still. John blinks and concentrates instead on a tiny fissure of fuchsia where Mrs. Hudson’s lipstick has made a mad dash for its boundaries, content to let her drown out his thoughts.

“Besides, a nice doctor like you, you’ll find someone soon enough. Just you wait. “ She continues to pat his thigh, a pair of bangles jangling in sympathy. “I could arrange something with my dental hygienist. Available, well-off.” She gives him an appraising look. “Or my niece, if that’s what you’re after these days.”

John’s cheeks flush. “That’s alright. Appreciate the thought, though.”

“Of course, dear,” she clucks to herself. “Of course, there was no one like him.” Her eyes seem to take in the air around his head in a desperate bid to avoid his eyes. Rightfully so.

He clears his throat. “Well, I’ll be around with my things in the next couple of days.”

“Yes, of course. You just let me know if you need anything.” She rises, pats her hair self-consciously. Gives him a final once-over as though checking for damage, and then extracts the key from her pocket as an afterthought, setting it down in front of him. “I’ll just leave you to it.” She’s almost out the door when she calls back, “Rent’s due Wednesday, dear.”

Six days of habitation. John sighs. Only Mrs. Hudson would ask for rent for six days. But when he tries to picture the kind of person that would want to live in a deceased internet-famous detective’s flat, he has to suppress a shiver of disgust. Suddenly the rent seems worth it.

_There’s no one like him._

John sighs. He needs a hobby, or possibly a strong drink.

\---

_Dear Mr Holmes,_

_‘I know your probably busy but I need your advice, my professor has gone on a leave but he’s been replaced for the rest of the term? Except he would have told me and his facebook doesn’t say anything and he’s not returning my texts so I’m worried, can you trace him or something? They say he’s gone on leave in Prague but he never said anything about it, I know it sounds like were having an affair but were not, we only kissed once._

_I can’t tell you the details here but if you could email be back that would be good._

-       _Eva_

John shakes his head. Unbelievable that some people hadn’t gotten the news yet. When was the last time he checked the blog? Two weeks, at least. Not since before Sherlock – well, he couldn’t have looked at it before, especially not with the majority of the messages, hateful ones that he deletes almost without skimming. But this message makes him feel better, even though Eva will never have any help with her errant adulterous professor. He considers sending a reply, if only to thank her, but he decides that it isn’t a good idea. Instead he closes the laptop and wanders back over to the pull-out bed.

\---

After an hour, his storming around is getting too obvious to ignore. He’s standing with his hands on his hips, dark curls in disarray. He hasn’t moved in ten minutes, but the not-moving is equally disturbing. John keeps looking at his back, his narrow waist. Distracting.

“Alright, what is it?”

“My box of eyepieces. I can’t find it.”

John sighs and unfolds himself from the chair, approaching him. “I haven’t touched anything in that room, Sherlock. We can ask Mrs. Hudson – “

He whirls. “Yes!”

“- in the morning. Not at just any hour of the night.” John plants his palms on either shoulder, giving Sherlock his patented _I’m the physician and I know best_ look; Sherlock glances away, clearly irritated beyond all reason. “Sherlock,” John murmurs.

He makes a non-committal sound of acknowledgment.

“It’s late - or rather, early, and you’ve been returned from the dead for less than 48 hours and back in this flat for less than that. I think your eyepieces will survive another day or two without you.”

His eyes dart back, full of dramatic suffering and – wonder of wonders, resignation.

“Perhaps,” he mutters.

“You’re going to go to bed now.”

“Can’t. Can’t possibly sleep with all those unopened boxes around.”

He can’t tell if it’s a ruse to get him to switch rooms or not, but there is an edge of genuine anguish in his voice that says that the condition of the room would cause him real, distinct discomfort. He tries to picture it from the perspective of a mad genius, obsessed with knowing the details of his surroundings, being barricaded into a room filled with unmarked, unknown boxes, all of his possessions, or maybe not all of them, some of them accounted for, some gone forever – and he realizes that he’s telling the truth. Sherlock’s eyes never leave his face, wide and blue and genuinely upset. And the wave of guilt and, more horribly, protectiveness, surges through him, drowning out any rational protest.

“You can sleep in my bed, then. Just for now.”

Just as quickly, the fear melts from his eyes, replaced with an impenetrable calm. “And you?”

“I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

Sherlock gives him a long, calculating look.

 “Just until things are sorted,” John warns.

“Yes, naturally.”

He continues standing there. John becomes very aware of his palms on his shoulders, possibly damp through his shirt, and removes them. Claps him once on the shoulder.

“Go on, then.”

Sherlock gives him a disparaging glance at being told what to do, but he goes, too-thin figure retreating into the dark of the kitchen. John wonders with a pang if being dead has made him lose weight. He looks too slender, ethereal almost. Or it could be that he’s just not used to having him around.

It’s going to be a long night on the sofa. Maybe for the rest of all time.

\--end

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're curious, I listened to this song quite often while writing this:  
> Hungry Ghosts - I don't think about you anymore but, I don't think about you anyless  
> Title is appropriate, I think.


End file.
